


Cooking Lessons

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [24]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, AU, Art, Artists, Cooking, Historical, Kissing, London, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schuldig cooks lunch, Crawford gets more than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooking Lessons

Schuldig stares out the window at the sudden downpour, a frown drawing down his brows. I catch up my discarded bathrobe and go over, draping it over his shoulders. The neighbours might, after all, write unpleasant notes to my landlord if they see a naked boy pressed up against the glass.

"You looked cold," I say as he half turns to look quizzically at me. I admire the ease with which even such a little lie can come to my lips. Clearly Schuldig's company has taught me new social skills.

He puts the robe on properly, belting it loosely. "The weather's really broken now," he says, still looking out the window, "It'll be a lot chillier this evening."

"You British," I smile. "You're all obsessed with the weather."

"We British," he says with some irony. "We certainly are. Those clouds came out of nowhere – people won't have had much time to get things in out of the rain."

"Worried about your mother's washing-line?"

"Something like that," he says, a quick grin on his lips.

I know his moods better now, and can tell the truthful smiles from the false; there is something niggling at him, a rare moment of conscience that will not let him be, perhaps.

"Do you need to go home to help out?" I ask.

I see something flicker in his eyes, a moment when he has two paths before him, to stay or go, and I feel I see quite clearly what he will do, for the rain is falling harder, and I need only wait and not seem too eager for his presence. He is contrary enough to do the opposite of whatever is expected.

"I'm not going out in that," he says, and more softly, "No point, anyway. It's been raining too damn long." He stretches, the robe's sleeves falling back from his tanned forearms. "What time is it?"

I look at my wristwatch. "Nearly one o'clock." I manage to keep the pleasure that he has chosen to stay with me from my voice.

"Lunchtime – and we're not going out to get soaked. Come on – I want something hot."

In the other room I watch him rummage through my kitchen cupboards. He knows exactly what I have, as I have given up buying things he doesn't like, and soon has his ingredients assembled. I watch in some awe as he beats eggs and makes a thin, smooth batter and melts butter without burning it in the slightest. My own culinary skills run to unevenly sliced bread and burnt toast. As he makes thin, light brown pancakes, I frown in puzzlement.

"Are you turning those with one of my palette knives?"

"Mmm-hmm," he mumbles, distracted, adding, "I washed it first, you're not getting paint on your fucking pancakes. Do you think I'm a fucking idiot?"

"No, it's just, well – it's a palette knife."

"You don't have a fish slice, and this has a good, flexible blade, gets right under the pancake."

I sit back, defeated by logic and wondering what a fish slice is. Schuldig finishes cooking, arrays a few pots of jam on the table, and then brings over two plates of pancakes. On each plate there are a few neat slices of fresh ripe peach, reminding us that it is still theoretically summer. He must have brought it with him, as I have not bought any fruit this week.

"Very nicely done," I say. "An excellent presentation. Where did you learn to cook?"

"Where does anyone learn to cook?" he shrugs. "My mother taught me."

I have to laugh at the idea of him meekly following instructions in a kitchen. My mind puts him in a frilled apron and a little bonnet to boot.

"And you let her? Wouldn't you rather have been playing football with your friends? This brother of yours, does he cook as well?"

"Stop fishing for information," he says, quite mildly. "Eat your lunch." Out of nowhere, as if to show he isn't annoyed with me, he drops a quick kiss on the top of my head.

"Yes, Mommy," I laugh, and pull at his arm, just to make him stumble a little. He treads on the trailing belt of the robe and falls backwards into my lap; it's hard to say which of the two of us is more surprised. He recovers first, and smiles at me in a way that is both genuine and terrifying. He put his hands on my face and presses his lips to mine, shifting closer against me. I think, _No, wait, I didn't mean -_ and then all I can think is how warm he is in my lap, and how his mouth tastes of peach, as if he has already eaten a slice while cooking. I wrap my arms about him and hold on tight, as if I am at the edge of a precipice and he is the only thing keeping me from going over. It is a great relief and disappointment when he pulls back.

"It was a hard and lonely time for her," he says softly. "I didn't mind her teaching me how to cook." He smiles then in a quite normal way, as if sitting in another man's lap is an everyday occurrence. "Don't let the food get any colder!" He stands up and goes to his own chair, and eats with a healthy appetite.

I follow suit. The pancakes are very good, if a little cool by now. With every bite I hope the rain will fall forever and he will never leave. Schuldig smiles at me as if my thoughts are written on my face, but I don't care, I just want him not to go.


End file.
